by Allan Frost
The third shot was considerably more successful: the pseudo-shakram flew through the air like a flying saucer and embedded itself into the bark of the Watch Oak. It was stuck fast and took some effort to wriggle out, even with Bud’s strong fingers. Pity they were cut to shreds in the process, which made repairing the punctured tyre impossible for the time being.
Bud hobbled back home, wheeling the bike and dripping spots of blood onto the lane, with mixed feelings. Resigned disappointment (to which he was quite accustomed) tinged with a small sense of success. He’d have to give the matter of technique some thought (and take a pair of thick leather gloves) before he tried to fling the shakram again.
Mick Sturbs let out a long sigh of relief as soon as PC Blossom left the Watch Oak. He stood up, taking care not to alarm the small deer tethered to a tree in the field next to Corpses Copse.
‘It’s OK now, Bambi,’ he said gently while feeding the young creature a Chantenay carrot. ‘Nasty man’s gone.’
It had been a tense moment. If he hadn’t spotted the copper first, the copper might have spotted him. He was fed up with being persecuted like a common criminal. Blossom was a prat of the first order. When would he ever give up? Mick was born into a family whose poaching experience spread over several generations and, as far as he knew, none of his ancestors had ever been successfully prosecuted.
And what on earth was Blossom up to, flinging a plate against the old oak tree? What had the tree done to deserve such treatment? While Mick might not be altogether consistent in his regard for all things living, damaging trees, especially the centuries old Watch Oak, was simply not on. There was no sport or skill in hitting something that couldn’t move out of the way or fight back.
He untethered Bambi and led her round to another corner of the field, coaxing her to follow him. This lovely animal was the apple of his eye, first prize in last year’s open darts and ten pin bowling competition at the Just One More Tavern on the Wellingley Road. Winning the young deer had presented a bit of a dilemma. Bert Nibbull and several others with an interest in butchery had offered good money for her, but he’d resisted. However, there wasn’t enough room at his smallholding so he’d had to let the deer graze in whatever seldom-visited fields he could find.
Priorton Hall Park had served the purpose well . . . until all those damn students descended like a pack of locusts to strip all vegetation from the ruins of the old Priory. They’d gone now, thank goodness, so Bambi was able to stroll (at the end of a tether attached to a stake) in different parts of the grounds without anyone suspecting. No doubt the new owners of the Hall would let the creature graze on their land but why should he have to pay rent for the privilege? He was a poacher, after all! In the meantime, Bambi would have to be content to nibble the grass in the Watch Oak field.
Which was why Mick didn’t want Bambi to stray into Corpses Copse. It was full of skilfully-hidden animal traps and snares (most of them dating back to the early 1800s, and totally illegal), handed down from father to son for generations. Mick felt an enormous amount of pride that he was able to continue the family tradition.
Not only had he skilfully managed to avoid a criminal record (unlike his great-great-great grandfather One Armed, Two Fingered Seth who was transported to Australia in the 1820s; the nickname arose after several unfortunate incidents with mantraps) but he could also list many influential and honest citizens among his discerning clientele.
Furthermore, Mick was something of an inventor and restorer. Design of mantraps, for example, has been somewhat overlooked since the late 1800s. Mick invented a few improvements to their general functionality, making them more sensitive and twice as lethal.
That’s why Bambi mustn’t stray into Corpses Copse. Catching and killing badgers and foxes made neighbouring farmers extremely happy for the welfare of their cattle, sheep and chickens; Mick received more than ample payment each time he presented the remains to a farmer who, with a bit of luck, also asked him to dispose of the evidence. He could then take the body to another farmer and get paid twice. Furthermore, he could make a little extra by making shaving brushes and selling fox furs to unscrupulous furriers.
The last thing he wanted was for Bambi to die before her time which, he reflected, could be in December when the price for venison always shot up. No, Corpses Copse had been territory exclusively exploited by the Sturbs family for decades; everyone knew that. No one else with or without an ounce of sense would enter its leafy surroundings except by the lane to the Priory ruins, and no one in their right mind would go there at night. Spooky. Why, when the woods were so pretty and peaceful? Because of Mick’s traps, of course. They were moved around the ferns and other undergrowth at regular intervals, and only Mick knew where they were. Well, he did most of the time; a couple had gone missing a while ago, although he might possibly have forgotten where he laid them.
Only one person posed a threat to Mick’s activities, and that was Police Constable Bud Blossom. Notwithstanding the well-publicised fact (notices had appeared in the local evening newspaper) that Blossom was not allowed to cross the border from his own territory and conduct his own incident-prone investigations inside Corpses Copse, Mick knew full well that the policeman ventured into the woods from time to time.
He knew, not just by the size twelve police-issue boot prints in the mud but also because portions of splintered truncheons had been left in sprung traps. The fact they each had the initials ‘BB’ burned into them with a red hot poker made the evidence incontrovertible.
He fed another carrot to Bambi. She chewed it while he whacked a stake into the ground.
‘That should do, me darlin’,’ he said, giving her a gentle stroke. ‘’bye now, and have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow mornin’.’
As he strolled along the lane to Hemlock, Mick’s thoughts turned to how good it was to have friends in high places, and many satisfied customers only too willing to give him an alibi to ensure a regular supply of naturally reared organic produce was maintained.
It had been a good move dropping off that wood pigeon at Blister Grange. The judge had always been fair; it was only right to thank him. Might need his help again sometime. Same with the Easons.
Perhaps he should ask them if Bambi could roam around their park after all. He’d hate anything horrible happening to her.
Well, not at someone else’s hands at any rate.
VI
It took a mere eight minutes for Hilda Young to cover the short distance from PC Blossom’s foot to the drive of Blister Grange. George hadn’t been too keen on accepting the invitation to lunch. It had nothing (well, very little) to do with the affair of Lady Cynthia’s shoplifting: by all accounts, she seemed to be providing a valuable and much appreciated service to the citizens of Wellingley and district.
No, George’s apprehension was purely down to how Hilda would behave. Hilda, he had come to realise after three decades of married life, was a prude and an inveterate snob. And, whereas Sir Cedric was a highly respected pillar of the community, there was no saying how Hilda would react to Lady Cynthia’s more, how would you describe it? More Bohemian life style and candidly outspoken opinions.
Still, the Easons were a nice couple. Ordinary, yet somehow unique. It takes a special sort of person to allow their dead ancestors to live with them. My God, it had been an incredible experience, that court hearing, during which Sir Augustus and Lady Elizabeth Wilton, both deceased, gave evidence.
It had taken some doing, keeping their ghostly appearance away from the newspapers but, as Judge Cedric had emphasised at the time, their evidence, however interesting, was inadmissible. It was the documents they produced which had swung the decision in the Easons’ favour. Far better for them to inherit Priorton Hall and everything that went with it than that devious solicitor Fiddlit and his cronies to turn it all into a massive housing estate. Please, God, don’t let anyone mention ghosts to Hilda!
Hives opened the door and led them into the main reception room. Formal introd
uctions were made and Hilda presented the bouquet of flowers to Cynthia.
‘Oh, aren’t they lovely,’ she enthused. ‘Chrysanthemums. Has somebody died?’ She was joking. She handed them to Hives to put in a vase. ‘Use the Ming,’ she instructed.
Hilda’s polite smile faded.
‘I rather like chrysanthemums,’ she said.
‘So do I, so do I,’ replied Cynthia. ‘It’s just that they always make me think of death. I don’t suppose I’ve got much longer to go and often wonder how they’d look on my coffin. How thoughtful of you!’
Hilda didn’t know quite how to react. There was nothing in the Commoners’ Guide to High Society to cover situations like this. She’d have to write to the editors as soon as she got back home. It was obviously a major oversight, and the guide claimed to be fully comprehensive! As for Lady Cynthia, well, someone of her age shouldn’t wear flimsy Indian print cotton dresses or tops, and certainly not cheap imitation beads . . . assuming they were imitation. She didn’t seem to be wearing a bra, either. And was that a suspender belt fastener bulging out on her thigh? Well, really! A latter-day hippie, that’s what she was. Not at all what you’d expect of a Lady!
Cynthia’s thoughts were equally perceptive. Hilda was overweight by at least seventy pounds and her skirt a good three sizes too small. Her DDD breasts put enormous tension on that ‘head ’em up, move ’em out (and cross your fingers)’ brassiere. And her backside is large enough to rent out for advertising space!
No, she had little dress sense for her fifty-odd years. She’d look much better in something long and flowing . . . like the River Severn, but there wasn’t much call for buoys along its banks. Cynthia didn’t take to her at all but Hilda’s husband George was an important acquaintance of Cedric’s, so she’d hold her tongue. Apart from which, initial impressions can occasionally, just occasionally, be misleading.
Hives returned with a tray of sherries. They helped to break the tension. The door bell jingled gleefully. Hives disappeared and returned a few moments later with Sarah and Tim.
Conversations were, as expected, rather over-polite to begin with but, once a second glass of sherry took effect, became more relaxed. Hives glanced nervously at his generously donated small supply of sherry bottles, wondering if they’d last out until lunch was served. He decided against handing out the china bowls of salted crisps and peanuts, it might make the sherry last longer. He was relieved when Lady Cynthia consented to Hilda’s request for a brief tour around Blister Grange.
The ground floor was divided into large rooms, including the dining rooms, drawing room, several reception rooms, private studies and library. They could easily have been mistaken for any National Trust property except that each room was obviously lived in. There were none of the usual roped-off areas to prevent visitors pinching any one of the vast number of antiques.
Cedric explained, in proud terms (which seemed a trifle boastful to Hilda, whose covetous tendencies were being severely tested) how each of his forefathers had left their mark.
His father, Sir Algernon Ponsonby Foot-Wart, had travelled extensively as assistant Foreign Office advisor during the 1920s and 30s and offered his services as a spy in Greece during the Second World War; he had majored in Classical Greek literature during his student years at Cambridge.
Unfortunately, modern Greek bears no relationship to ancient Greek so, in an effort to preserve their skin, the resistance group (who couldn’t understand much of what he said) to whom he’d been assigned decided it would be safer to lock him up in a cave in Crete rather than let him loose. He spent most of the war in blissful ignorance, happy to pass the long hours away in the company of peasant girls. One of the drawing rooms was full of mementoes from his travels.
Algernon’s father, Brigadier Sir Otto Foot-Wart (named after German chancellor Bismarck) wandered aimlessly around South Africa during the Zulu war trying to locate his battalion, only to discover it had been wiped out months before. He’d forgotten to take a compass with him and picked up a map of his estate in Shropshire by mistake when packing, instead of the Geographic Society’s latest one of South Africa.
A generation earlier, Sir Mungo Foot-Wart had set off for Africa thoroughly intending to explore the centre of the continent. It wasn’t until his ship docked at New York that he realised his mistake. Undaunted, he salvaged something from the affair by investing heavily in the California Gold Rush and, happily, made a fortune which went some way to alleviating his embarrassment. He was absent for almost four years, during which time his selfless wife gave birth on two occasions.
And so Sir Cedric’s pedigree continued. Each generation had its own story to tell, very few of which failed to raise an eyebrow, ever since Barnabas Foot-Wart bought the Grange off Henry VIII in 1539, about the same time as Augustus Wilton’s father William acquired the Priory. Barnabas, like William, had been a prosperous wool merchant and the Grange had, apparently, belonged to the Priory before the dissolution of the monasteries.
The original Grange had been a rambling medieval timber-framed sheep farm-cum-mansion. Its age and constant danger of fire presented the Foot-Warts with major maintenance problems until Sir Jasper had the present building built in grand Georgian style during the eighteenth century. It was erected considerably closer to the main Priorton-Wellingley road than the original Grange ‘so my doxies have a shorter distance to travel and arrive here that much earlier’.
Sir Jasper had been an accomplished womaniser, excessive drinker, inveterate gambler and part time highwayman. Despite attaining a legendary reputation in the former three indisciplines, success as a gentleman of the road eluded him. Admittedly, he amassed a goodly fortune in jewels and coin of the realm. However, rich and wealthy victims travelling regularly from Shrewsbury to London eventually realised he always held them up in the same place: at the crossroads near the drive to Blister Grange.
In later life, Jasper felt he was getting a little too old for that sort of escapade. He should have listened to himself. Passengers on his last foray were ready for him and, when called upon to ‘Stand and deliver’ opened fire with a volley of gunfire from a wide range of weapons. His hole-ridden corpse resembled a colander. The Just One More Tavern, at which he was a frequent patron, was renamed after his death to preserve his memory.
Tim, and probably the other guests, soon became convinced that the Foot-Warts suffered from some form of genetic imbalance. They all seemed to have several screws loose.
Eventually the lunch party found itself back in the reception room sipping more sherry.
‘And how’ve you settled in at Priorton Hall, Tim?’ asked Cedric. ‘Bit run down when you moved in, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Very well, Sir Cedric. There’s still a lot to be done but we’re taking our time. We want to get a feel for the place before we make changes we might regret.’
‘Very wise. These old buildings need a lot of care and attention. Take Blister Grange. Costs a fortune to keep in tiptop condition. Shame to let it go to rack and ruin just because there’s no heir apparent. Just hope whoever occupies it after we leave takes good care of it.’ His voice faltered.
‘Now, now, Cedric,’ said Cynthia. ‘Don’t go maudlin on us.’
‘You haven’t any family to leave it to?’ asked George.
‘Not Foot-Wart family, no. And Cynthia’s side don’t seem particularly interested.’
Hilda, despite herself, was impressed by what she had seen of the Grange so far. Lovely grounds, rooms with high ceilings and plenty of space. She imagined Priorton Hall must be very similar and felt rather jealous of the Foot-Warts and Easons. Massive houses, lots of ground and so few people living in them. The detached Young residence, including its front and back gardens built on a new estate in the 1960s, would easily fit into a single room at Blister Grange!
Sarah misread Hilda’s silence, thinking she probably felt left out.
‘People don’t realise how much time and effort, let alone money, is involved in looking afte
r old houses,’ she said. ‘I used to think the Priorton Arms was a handful.’
‘You’ve been in the Priorton Arms?’ asked Hilda. ‘George and I go there for meals quite often. Very nice. They had an old juke box that did its own thing. Very funny.’
‘I own it,’ said Sarah. ‘Used to be the landlady before Tim and I got married.’
‘Oh.’ said Hilda. So she owns a pub as well as a mansion! Some people have all the luck! Didn’t know George was on such good terms with rich people. Sarah seems fairly down to earth and approachable, though. And Lady Cynthia doesn’t seem quite so odd as I first thought. Not like the nouveaux riches at the WI. Perhaps I’ve been trying too hard to get in with the wrong crowd. Hilda smiled: they’ll be sick with envy when I let drop I’ve dined at Blister Grange. Have to get an invite to Priorton Hall as well. That’ll show them!
‘Did your husband buy Priorton Hall?’ she continued.
‘No, we inherited it. Tim’s a history researcher and discovered we were related to the Wilton family who had it built over 400 years ago. It turned out we were the only heirs still alive.’
‘Oh.’ Huh.
George overheard Sarah. Oh, God! She’ll mention the ghosts next. He could imagine Hilda’s reaction. And it wouldn’t be easy to scrape her off the floor after she fainted.
‘George,’ Cedric interrupted his thoughts. ‘Been meaning to have a word with you about Blossom. Up before me again with another trumped up charge against Sturbs.’
‘Mick Sturbs?’
‘Yes, the poacher. We all know he’s as guilty as sin but he’s a valuable member of society. Satisfies a market. But Blossom should know by now to leave damn well alone.’
‘Well, you know Constable Blossom—’ began George.
‘I bloody well do!’ retorted Cedric. ‘Wasting the court’s time when he’s well aware that Sturbs will always have half of the county to give him an alibi.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, Sir Cedric.’ He wasn’t hopeful.